


au courant

by rythyme (pugglemuggle)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Tries to Adjust to the Modern World, Arthur Tries to Get a Passport, Banter, Domestic, Fluff and Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Modern Era, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pugglemuggle/pseuds/rythyme
Summary: Arthur emerges from the lake on an unremarkable Tuesday in the twenty-first century. There isn’t much of a precedent for men miraculously springing from lakes without birth certificates, identification, or NHS numbers, so Merlin has no idea where to begin getting Arthur everything he needs to function in modern Britain. There are many, many,manythings to sort out.Or: Merlin spends a great deal of time getting Arthur up to speed with the many wonders of the modern era. Arthur takes some of it surprisingly well —“I already know about magic and scrying. How is this FaceTime thing any different?”— but other more bureaucratic things are unexpectedly difficult. Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 133





	au courant

**Author's Note:**

> au courant _(adjective)_ : aware of what is going on; well informed.
> 
> Safe to say, Arthur is not _au courant_ with the modern world.
> 
> This story was originally written for [Resurrection: A Merlin 10th Anniversary Fanthology.](https://twitter.com/merlinanthology) I've been sitting on it for close to three years now and am so excited to finally get to share it here on AO3! I hope you like it!

Arthur emerges from the lake on a Tuesday.

It’s a very unassuming Tuesday. The sky is overcast—as usual—and the only vehicles passing along the narrow, winding road are lorries and the occasional Welsh commuter. The lake herself is calm. There are no fishermen, no Sídhe, no cryptids lurking in her depths. Those times have long since passed, like silt flushed down to the pebbled lake floor, waiting for the right disturbance to rise up and join the fray once again.

Merlin is ready. He’s magicked on a younger face and gathered up older clothes in an effort to keep himself recognizable. The only anachronism is his rain jacket; a thousand years have made him no less wary of Welsh weather. He waits for high noon. And waits. And waits.

The ripples appear at half past. They grow to become waves, frothing and spitting like a shallow geyser erupting from the lake—and at the center of it, sputtering, coughing, sopping wet—emerges Arthur. 

“You’re late,” Merlin calls out, grinning so hard he thinks his face might split.

“I’m the  _ king _ ,” Arthur says, looking very un-king-like with his wet hair and clothes. He begins to wade towards Merlin through the cold water. “I’m never late.”

“Agree to disagree,” Merlin says. When he reaches out to offer him a hand, Arthur takes it, his grip strong, solid, and  _ real. _ Merlin clutches Arthur's hand a little tighter, blinks back the stinging in his eyes, and says, “Welcome back.”

———

There are many, many,  _ many _ things to sort out.

They spend a great deal of time just getting Arthur up to speed with the many wonders of the modern era. Arthur takes some of it surprisingly well—“I already know about magic and scrying. How is this  _ FaceTime  _ thing any different?”—but other concepts are unexpectedly difficult. Merlin spends hours explaining the monarchy, parliament, and how the queen isn’t  _ actually _ in charge of anything, which Arthur finds harder to digest than cars or the internet.

“It’s ludicrous,” Arthur says. “Why have a queen with no power? What’s the point of it? Why have a queen at all?”

Merlin has a rather hard time answering that one.

After a few days holed up in Merlin’s apartment going through some intensive Modern World 101, Merlin thinks they’ve covered all the most important things. He takes Arthur into town to one of the dozens of taverns that claims to be “The Oldest in Britain.” Merlin has never verified their claim, but the wooden walls whisper of fae magic from long-felled forests, faint like an old memory, and that at least is good enough for Merlin.

They order a couple of pints. The waitress eyes Arthur's broad shoulders and jokes about how she ought to check their IDs.

Arthur frowns. “What is an eye-dee?”

Oh no. Perhaps Merlin hasn’t been as thorough as he thinks he’s been.

———

Back at the apartment, Merlin spends the better part of the next three hours going in circles through various government websites while Arthur pouts from the kitchen. Apparently, there isn’t much of a precedent for men miraculously springing from lakes without birth certificates, or identification, or NHS numbers, and Merlin isn’t even sure where to begin putting Arthur on the grid. It’s frustrating, and it makes Merlin long for the simpler times of Internetless anonymity. 

“I don’t understand why you can’t just use magic to make me one of those eye-see things,” Arthur says, frowning at the instructions on the back of a microwave meal. “It’s a little piece of paper. How difficult can it be?”

“ID,” Merlin corrects, closing yet another gov.uk link. “And it’s not just about the card itself. You have to get registered in the system, which is on the Internet.”

“Then use magic to register me on the Internet.”

“I can’t just— _ that’s not how it works.” _

“Why not?” Arthur asks. He opens the meal packaging, sets it in the microwave, and crosses his arms to stare at Merlin with his signature imperious expression. It only manages to be a little bit intimidating, what with his too-small T-shirt, old sweatpants, and the fact that Merlin knows Arthur is only bluffing about knowing how to use the microwave.

Merlin finally settles on saying, “The Internet is too complicated for me to use magic on it.” Arthur snorts derisively and goes back to pretending to know how to use a microwave, and Merlin goes back to being relentlessly bullied by the UK’s digital maze of bureaucracy.

Two minutes later, Arthur lets out a loud sigh in that way he does when he needs help but doesn’t want to ask for it. Merlin takes pity on him and starts the microwave.

———

When the hold music restarts for the third time, Merlin thinks he might lose his mind. He sets the phone down on the arm of the sofa and scrubs his face with his hands, letting out a long sigh. It’s been two days. He’s still not any closer to working this out.

To get an NHS number, a bank account, or even a Tesco Clubcard, Arthur needs proof of residence. To get proof of residence, Arthur needs a government-issued ID. To get an ID, Arthur needs a birth certificate. Which he doesn’t have. Of course.

“Have they made you wait again?” Arthur asks from where he’s rummaging through the clothes in Merlin’s closet. Merlin has given up asking him to stop. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’ve been on the phone for forty-five minutes,” Merlin groans. “I almost wish you'd have come back in the 1800s instead. This wouldn't have happened in the 1800s.”

“It’s ridiculous that I even need a birth certificate,” Arthur says. “I was very clearly  _ born _ . They’re idiots if they need proof.”’

Merlin does not bother to contradict him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten. Then he picks up the phone again, listens to grainy Chopin, and waits.

———

The queue at the passport office is long and slow. A brand new, partially legal, and only  _ mostly  _ magic-free birth certificate waits safely in a folder in Merlin’s hand. The small number on their queue ticket is 253, and the man running the call desk has just called 252. They’ve already been here for an hour, and Arthur looks a bit like he’s trying not to scream. “Why haven’t they called our number?” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “They called the last number ages ago—”

“It has only been five minutes,” Merlin says placatingly.

_“ Ages_ _ago_ ,” insists Arthur. His fists are clenched in his lap, and Merlin prays for the sake of the staff of the passport office that their number gets called quickly.

For once in Merlin's life, the heavens seem to be listening. “Number 253,” drawls the man at the desk. 

“Finally.” Arthur mutters the word a touch too loudly to be subtle. Merlin winces, but grabs Arthur’s arm all the same and pulls him towards the desk.

“Hello, sir.” Merlin greets the man with all the false cheer he can muster. “We’re here to get my friend a passport...”

———

Merlin wrings his hands as he hovers over Arthur’s shoulder, watching him sign form after form from the stack on the coffee table. The “done” stack is fairly sizable, but it’s still dwarfed by the enormous pile of bureaucratic nonsense they have left. The form they’re going through now is for the lease on the apartment. 

“Um.’ Merlin hesitates. “Arthur—”

“What?” Arthur says with such venom that it sounds more like an accusation than a question. Merlin almost loses his nerve. Almost.

“You missed one of the signatures, here.” He gestures to the blank line. “It’s basically just saying that there  _ might  _ be asbestos here, but they’re not sure, and they’re just obligated to let us know—”

Arthur cuts him off. “Merlin, what the  _ hell _ is asbestos?”

“Oh.” Merlin thinks. “It’s, um. I’m not actually sure. Some kind of building material, I think? They used to use it a lot a few decades ago, but they don’t use it anymore now for newer buildings. Our building is old, though, so—”

_ “ Merlin .” _

“Sorry, sorry. Asbestos is poisonous. I guess.”

Arthur looks affronted. “And there’s asbestos  _ here ?” _

“There might be. But—they don’t know. Which is why you need to sign this.”

“That’s bloody ridiculous. Why would I sign this form that says there  _ might  _ be poison here? Why wouldn’t we just get rid of it?”

“Well, it’s expensive, and difficult, and dangerous—”

“We’ve fought  _ dragons _ , Merlin. You’re a  _ wizard _ . Surely a poisonous brick can’t be very hard.”

Credit to Arthur; it’s a fair point. Merlin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, okay, I’ll...look into it. But— _ please  _ just sign the form. For now. So we can get you on the bloody lease. Okay?”

“Fine,” Arthur mutters. He signs the blank line and flips to the next page. Merlin savors the small victory. They’re quiet for a few moments, save for the shifting of papers and the scratch of Arthur’s pen. Then—

“Merlin, what’s this about Renter’s Insurance?”

———

After a week of listening to hold music, rushing between government offices, reading mountains of government forms, and trying desperately to keep Arthur from exposing the secrets of magic to the entire British populace, Merlin thinks they’ve finally taken care of the bulk of it. He feels a little exhausted. If he had a choice between dealing with this and dealing with the Sídhe, he’s honestly not sure which he’d pick.

They’re on a walk in the outskirts of Cardiff. People pass by from time to time, but for the most part the streets are quiet; calm, not lonely. It’s sprinkling just enough to dampen their hair and leave the cobbled sidewalks freckled with rain. For once, Arthur isn't complaining about the style of his clothes, or not having a sword, or any of the other hundred innocuous problems he’s found with modern life. Their silence is comfortable. 

It hits him while they're stalled at a pedestrian crossing. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says. “You know... Before you came out of that lake, I was waiting for you for a long time.”

“You've mentioned that.”

“Waiting for you was kind of...all I was doing, really.”

“Sounds dull.”

“But, well, now I'm not waiting anymore.”

“I'm hoping you have a point.”

“Yes, yes, sorry, it's just...” Merlin pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “What next? What do we do now?”

Arthur doesn't respond right away. His face settles in a familiar look Merlin remembers from council meetings, and war tents, send battlefront speeches. It's a look that reminds him that Arthur is, first and foremost, a king. A  _ good  _ king. A king who, despite appearances, has learned to listen.

“I think,” Arthur says eventually, “that we should get me a mobile phone.”

Merlin stares.

“ _ What _ ?” he asks when Arthur shows no signs of continuing. “Is that—is that your answer?”

“I think we should get me one of those bank cards as well,” Arthur adds. “And perhaps a car.”

“A— _a car_? Of course. Just when I thought you might take this _seriously_ —”

“I  _ am  _ taking this seriously,” Arthur says, but he's grinning a little, too. “I  _ do  _ think we should do all those things. I think we should keep moving forward, one step at a time. And I think we should stop worrying about pointless things. “What next?” Really, Merlin? I shouldn't think that one is too hard.”

Merlin frowns, crossing his arms. “I'm still not sure what you mean, and I'm not liking your tone.”

“I'm the Once and Future King,” says Arthur. “If you were looking for a grandiose answer, now you've got one.”

It shouldn't make sense. It shouldn't, but Merlin gets it. He understands what Arthur's trying to say.

“Alright,” Merlin says slowly. “Well... What's the first step, then, Your Majesty?”

“Crossing this street,” Arthur deadpans, gesturing at the now-green pedestrian sign. Merlin rolls his eyes, but grabs Arthur's arm and pulls him across the street all the same. “We’ll look at some of these shops here. What is a  _ launderette _ _?  _ And what is this bubble... _ tea?  _ We really ought to start looking into these...”

Arthur’s voice fades from focus and Merlin smiles at him, thinking. 

“Merlin, are you even listening?”

Merlin starts. “What? Oh, oh yes.”

“Honestly, Merlin...” Arthur says, shaking his head. His lips are quirked just a bit at the edges in a way that says he’s trying not to smile. This—this  _ moment _ , Merlin can feel the inevitability of it, its agelessness. Perhaps Arthur is right. Perhaps he’s onto something.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you liked it, please feel free to leave kudos or comment. No pressure though! I just love to hear what you guys think. <3


End file.
